To tell the truth, I think my day might bore
you. What, you’d ask, do you get done, what chore
have you accomplished? Yes, the dishes wait
sometimes, and dust balls gather. Yet, I state
that writing wakes me with a push or shove.
I jump from bed in wonder of the love
this new day’s words will show me. Rituals
of morning now complete, I hear the lulls
and rhythms of the day and seek to find
my place. Perhaps piano calls. My mind
shifts into Beethoven or Mozart mode
and music emanates from my abode.
Then hours of writing consummate my time,
with background sound of antique clock’s sweet chime.
The soccer games and cross meets of our dear
ones fill the evenings, weekend mornings. Here
we go to watch them once again and cheer
their fine accomplishments. We pack up gear
to sit on sidelines, see the runners slide,
so effortless, it seems as if they glide.
On every Monday evening I attend
a Bible study group where women blend
their thoughts and prayers. At this I’m always filled,
as angst and worries of the day are stilled.
Once monthly I attend a writing group
where eight of us critique the others’ work.
Another writing group I joined of late,
and we host festivals, participate
in local readings, book sales, arts events.
My college friends plan gatherings. No fence
could separate us. O, how we’ve been blessed
to stay in touch. Who would have ever guessed
that nine and forty years after we left
our university we’d still be deft
in making sure our tight-knit friendships last?
And then, pièce de résistance: the blast
we have in being grandparents, this joy
so tall we can’t love more our girls and boy.
Because of Skype I teach my brother. He
now plays piano, Für Elise the key
unlocking satisfaction he’s not known.
Yes, both of us are older now, are grown,
but students we will always be. Life’s songs,
a goal, a race, a friend, a word rights wrongs.
Sometimes I simply need to take a nap.
How I resist, but know that it’s the cap
to a day that brimmed with lots to do or less.
Each element of day I cherish, press
as wildflowers in a scrapbook. O, the pines
that stand straight on the hillside are like mines
of gold that I unearth by looking. Give
me nature all around…and I can live.